Nine HD Drabbles
by Vaysh11
Summary: Nine glimpses into H/D starting 6th year until way past 2017/the Epilogue. Nine drabbles written for the Harry/Draco Last Drabble Writer Standing Round 1.
1. No Words

**No Words**

~•~

Malfoy had nodded at him after breakfast, their usual sign to meet that night. He'd not looked at Harry when he'd passed, quicker than usual, but not quick enough for Harry to miss the way Malfoy's wand arm was raised as if to deflect a hex.

Eight days since Harry'd cast the _Sectumsempra_ on him, and they hadn't once touched or talked or even looked at each other.

The ice in Harry's chest crept into his throat, a sick coldness that he'd struggled to keep down all those days. Kissing Ginny had barely melted the edges. And Malfoy must have heard. About Ginny. About the kiss.

~•~

He was standing at the battlements, hair stark white against the night. They'd been meeting here for months, close to the stars, to kiss, fuck, but never talk. They'd exchanged more words in that sodding bathroom than up here.

"Potter." Malfoy's eyes were on the lake. He always knew Harry by the sound of his steps.

It seemed all right to put his hands on Malfoy's hips, to pull him close and unfreeze the ice in Harry's chest. But all Harry could think of was a hand going limp, a wand rolling over tiles, warm blood painting the gushing water red.

"Make me come," Malfoy said, quietly as the wind. _Heal me._

Harry slammed him against the moss-grown stones of the castle's wall, ripped his trousers open and shoved his silk pants down to get at heat, slick and hard in his palm as he tossed Malfoy off, too fast, too clumsy, but he needed, _needed_ to have Malfoy come by the touch of his hand.

"I didn'–"

Malfoy groaned as he thrust into Harry's fist.

"I'm sor–"

He kissed Harry, a mess of spit and lust, piercing his mouth, biting him with teeth so sharp like everything was sharp about Malfoy.

Clutching at Harry's hair, Malfoy's head fell back, then he spilled over Harry's fingers and shirt. So incredibly warm and alive, alive ... _Forgive me._ Harry couldn't help frot against Malfoy's twitching dick. When he came his spunk felt like melted ice-water, wetting his pants.

They slid down the wall, a tangle of legs and arms holding the other close. Malfoy's chest was white as snow with a silvery path cutting across. Harry traced it with trembling fingertips.

"Will you kiss her again?" Malfoy's voice was dull, like slate.

Harry put his lips where his fingers had been. He couldn't speak, couldn't say a word – not with all of him filled to the brim by this burning wish: to slice Malfoy open again so he could reach his beating, broken heart. And kiss it. Make it whole.


	2. Pale Morning

**Pale Morning**

~•~

The pale morning light woke Harry when Draco was already getting dressed. He looked older in those tall black boots. Dangerous. Only his hair, luminous against the gloom, reminded Harry of the boy who'd kissed him so desperately last night.

"Why do you have to leave?"

Draco turned, the light glinting off the mask he was hiding. "Why do you think?"

"We've been sleeping together for weeks."

"So?"

"You hate Volde–"

"Don't say his name! You have no idea how powerful the Dark Lord is."

"Don't _you_ tell me you still believe in all that pure-blood shit."

Draco stepped closer, he grabbed Harry's chin, eyes ablaze. "Do you think I'd be fucking you if your father's blood wasn't from pure stock? _Potter_?"

He'd been so needy last night, touching Harry everywhere. Coming so hard with just their cocks rubbing against each other. Yes, Harry thought. "Yes. You'd be bloody fucking me even if I was a Muggle who'd never heard of magic."

Something sharp like pain flashed across Draco's face but he quickly pulled the hood up, hiding his hair.

There were no words of good-bye. Only, "He'll be sending Snatchers to Godric's Hollow day after tomorrow. Don't be around."


	3. Sleeping in the Dark

**Sleeping In The Dark**

**~•~**

They carry him up to Harry's room and dump him on a second bed that Snape Transfigured from the bedtable with a swish of his wand. It's narrow, without posts, the bedding Slytherin green. Draco Malfoy looks pale against the sheets.

"He's no longer safe at the Manor," Snape says. Remus nods as if Malfoy hadn't brought this down on himself when he handed Hogwarts to Voldemort on a silver platter. Harry starts to protest but Remus gives him a look from wild yellow eyes, and Harry understands. _Fenrir_.

Malfoy appears for supper, a limp to his gait, his forearms wrapped in bandages. A voice sneers _Hippogriff, Hippogriff_ in Harry's mind but it's no longer funny. Not with the pain potion beside Malfoy's plate and the way he shoves around his food.

They undress in silence. "Nox," Harry says. When he crawls into bed a Lumos brightens Malfoy's side of the room. His cracked lips form the first words he's spoken since he'd come to Grimmauld Place. "Can't sleep in the dark."

Harry nods; they keep looking at each other. Then Malfoy moves and he is in Harry's bed, sweaty, shivering and hard. "Touch me," he whispers, "fuck me." His eyes are bright, his voice breaks. A flaming spark of arousal shoots through Harry.

His fingers come away red from stretching Malfoy. But Malfoy wants this, he keeps whispering for Harry to please, _please_ take him. And Harry does, as gently as he can, moving like a wave hitting shore, back and forth. It takes forever until Malfoy comes; his moans sound like sobs. Bill Weasley's scars are on Harry's mind when he finally lets go and spills into Malfoy's ravaged arse, the voice chanting, _I will make you whole_.


	4. What Draco Malfoy Knows

**What Draco Malfoy Knows**

~•~

You asked your parents to be allowed home for the Easter holidays. School is a nightmare more terrifying than sixth year ever was, and you thought you'd survived the worst of it. But you didn't know about the Carrows' hatred of the Malfoy name; you didn't know what bitter malice Vince was capable of. You didn't know how badly you'd wish for Harry Potter to be around, damn the murderous, stupid, arrogant git. The last time you saw him was at the gamekeeper's hut, chasing after Snape as if anyone could possibly escape the Carrows' _Crucios_. Your dreams all year have been drenched in red and filled with Potter's screams of agony.

You didn't know your home has become Death Eater Central.

You didn't know you meet Potter here again, in the Manor's drawing room.

And now Mother says, "Come here," and that stinking werewolf dares call you "boy," and Father, his voice filled with a need as desperate as your own, asks, "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

The brainless oaf got himself hexed into a balloon-faced, pink-skinned monstrosity. Only Granger would think to cast a Stinging Jinx for disguise. She and Weasel are standing beside Potter, faces deathly white with fear. Father must be blind not to know him, but you, you'd recognise that brilliant green anywhere, no matter that Potter's eyes are swollen slits behind his ugly glasses, glittering in the light of the chandelier.

"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!" Father urges, so eager at this chance to redeem himself before his Lord.

You look at Potter – carefully, closely – and for the first time your eyes meet. You've never seen him panic before but now your own sickening fear is mirrored in his face. You know this instant that you will not, that you cannot betray him.

"Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?"

You think that this is the scrawny git who refused your hand when you were kids. The Parselmouth who talked down the snake you conjured up. The Seeker who snatched the Snitch right from your grasp, at every single game of Quidditch you two played. The bloody _Saviour_ who locked Father into Azkaban. The Golden Boy who turned you and your mates into oozing slugs. The lunatic who cut you open with a curse so Dark it would have taken your life if not for Snape.

You think how he makes you loathe the Mark on your wrist. How he makes you want to be a better person, brave and loyal and true, someone whose hand Harry Potter will take in friendship and more.

"I don't know," you say, hoping against hope that for once Potter will understand.

~•~

**Author's Notes:** All dialogue is quoted from the chapter "Malfoy Manor" of JK Rowling's _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.


	5. To Raise An Arm

**To Raise An Arm**

~•~

One arm around Gregory, the other twitching with indecision, Draco stands amidst the fire, pride and panic at war in his chest.

He's eleven, offering his hand to make friends with a hero.

He's sixteen, lowering his wand at the promise of mercy.

The flames burn his pride away, leaving a coward who won't betray an enemy, won't sacrifice a friend. He raises his arm, reaches, but his fingers are slipping.

_IF WE DIE FOR THEM_

Potter grabs him, his hold cool and strong, saying without words ...

_I'LL KILL YOU_

... what Draco aches to hear: _you_ are worth saving.

~•~

**Author's Notes: **Capitalised text is quoted from the chapter "The Battle of Hogwarts" of JK Rowling's _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.


	6. Sporting Bruises

**Sporting Bruises**

**~•~**

_Firewhisky sure doesn't taste as good coming up as going down_, Harry thinks as he kneels beside the loo. Another wave of nausea hits him. He scrambles to hold tight to the lid.

Walking out of the bathroom, he notices his butt is sore. And he certainly didn't go out last night sporting bruises around his wrists. His bed's a mess of sweat-soaked sheets, there's spunk stains everywhere. A cashmere scarf is tied to the bedpost, bringing fuzzy memories that Harry doesn't yet dare to explore.

"Bloody ..." He manages a scratchy croak. The ancient toad from the Hogwarts' lake had a lovelier voice. Malfoy must have Apparated home, and damn it, he was in no shape for magic. Why the fuck didn't he stay?

Harry remembers clearly that Malfoy sat alone in the Leaky last night, a row of shot glasses before him, his left arm wrapped in bandages. His first night out of St Mungo's after the Ministry approved removal of the Mark.

Other things are not so clear: the odd longing in Malfoy's eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion in his limbs even as they fucked like they always do ... They've not seen each other for a week. Tired and hung over, Harry can admit to himself that he missed the git. Who probably Splinched himself and is back already at St Mungo's!

Harry steps towards to window to call for Elsie, but another owl waits outside. With a haughty look it drops a package. Bright sparks explode before Harry's eyes as he catches it, like a golden Snitch. He retrieves a flask of Hangover Potion and a letter in Malfoy's old-fashioned hand.

_Potter_, it reads, _don't expect me to clear the chaos on your desk. Get your arse into the office pronto. Shacklebolt wants those reports at ten_.


	7. Last Dance

**Last Dance**

~•~

"Mr. Malfoy, you should go home, sir. Catch some sleep."

_One, two, three_ – his heartbeat was thrumming in his veins like tiny, tinkling pieces of bronze. Harry, eyes glittering green, lips spit-slick red, was spinning round and round and round on the Minister's Ball, held tight in Draco's arms.

_One, two, three_ – Harry was on the ground within seconds. Each hateful punch was meant for him, the Death Eater who'd dared touch Harry Potter's skin, his wild, untameable hair. His heart. Harry took them all, those unforgiving punches to face, gut and groin. And he took the spell that was meant to crack Draco's skull.

_One, two, three_ – the nights at Harry's side were long. Draco sometimes reached for the sleeping man in the hospital bed. But he wouldn't touch him. Not when these bruised eyelids, this swollen face, the deep gash zig-zagging across Harry's head were his fault. For he should have known. Some nameless wizard could be gay, a Malfoy even could be fucking men. But not Harry Potter. They should have never danced like this. They should have never loved like this.

"Just another hour, Healer. I'll be gone before the family arrives."

~•~

**Author's Notes: **This drabble scenario is shamelessly stolen from the season 1 finale of _Queer as Folk_.


	8. Always

**Always**

~•~

Cold tea was dripping onto Harry's shoe but he couldn't be bothered to move. Their office was still ringing with the bang of Malfoy slamming the door shut behind him. Harry's files were a tea-drenched mess; Malfoy's favourite quill was snapped in two. He'd swept everything off their desks before his fuming exit. Breaking up with Harry. Again.

The tea was soaking through the leather into Harry's sock. Bloody bigoted, obnoxious, insufferable git.

Harry found him in the Aurors' mess, smoking and staring into the cup he was using for an ashtray. The moment Harry entered Malfoy's head snapped up. He could see the brightness in his eyes before Malfoy whipped out his wand. Luckily, Harry still was faster than him.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

"Fuck you, Potter!"

Harry had him against the wall, at wand-point. "Listen to me."

"Oh, but how could I not listen when threatened by the most powerful wizard alive, the great and almighty Harry Potter who's –" Malfoy went quiet, just so. Perhaps he'd seen how hard Harry's wand was shaking.

"I want you," Harry said into the sudden silence, "as my partner and in my bed. I want to _be_ with you and grow old with you, get bald and fat and doddery and ..." Choking on the words, he could only look at Malfoy like he'd done for so many years.

Malfoy gently pushed the wand away and wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him close. "It's all right, Potter," he whispered, "I'll always be with you."


	9. This Secret Longing

**This Secret Longing**

~•~

Potter stands before the warded door, his clothes so inconspicuous, nothing reminds of the powerful Auror the wizarding world sees daily on the pages of the _Prophet_. They've been meeting in Muggle hotels for months but still a blush colours Potter's cheeks when he hands over the bottle of wine. Only then he dares cast a glance at Draco.

Later, in the dim light, he still watches while Draco undresses. Lying naked on the bed, Draco waits for Potter to take his own shirt off, quickly as if he's suddenly remembered why they're here.

"C-can I touch you?"

Draco wonders whether lust puts the stutter in Potter's voice, or whether he's still afraid Draco'll say _no_. As if he'd ever. Before Potter came, his life had been the potion lab, with mother's occasional visits from France. He'd all but forgotten the sweet thrill of waiting, aching all week for someone who wants to be with him.

Tracing the scarred ribbons on Draco's chest, Potter whispers, "How, how can you let me fuck you?"

Draco pulls him close then, wondering for the umpteenth time why Harry Potter would even want to fuck him. He's no longer the pretty boy he once was; the Mark still glimmers darkly on his wrist. Yet Potter returns, week after week, and Draco gives him all he still has to give – his body, the pleasures he can offer, someone to share the wine and talk. Even fight.

But Potter pierces him so gently, ripping words from Draco's lips, shameful words like _hurt me_ and _please_. Ruthless like the Auror hiding underneath those ordinary clothes, it's Potter then who gives, slamming into him to satisfy this secret longing: to be fixed and made anew, unmarked, unscarred, a slate cleared of the past.


End file.
